


Latest Lost

by coefore



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-03 04:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17276897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coefore/pseuds/coefore
Summary: “They allowed us to place his head on the body, to honour it.” Magnus stood next to the unnaturally greyed mass, laid on the silver table. Words of contrast and treachery, there was nothing to honour about him. “Many were opposed to.”The sound of Magnus’ voice became a vague rumble in Optimus audials at his sight. At the sight of it.Optimus arrives late at Megatron's trial.Written after the release of LL25 and before OP25, redacted later in December.





	Latest Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Latest Lost: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5vrIaMF0Vk8
> 
> Hello, this is my first fanfiction for Transformers, but I wrote this on a whim after the ending of LL25, so here you go.

Limping forward, on a foreign planet to witness a trial,

limping forward, in a corridor.

 _Optimus_ , a surprised, yet composed voice crashed his numbed state.

Optimus, he,

he had rushed, rushed to get there as fast as possible.

The voice came from the imposing red and blue figure of Ultra Magnus, standing in front of him, his stern and detached look betraying emotions that had been alien to him for so long. Emotions he clearly couldn’t make peace with. His friend placed a hand on Optimus’ shoulder.

And then, a strangled sob reached his audials, as his optics moved from Magnus’ grim face to meet,

Rodimus.

The young one was there, managing his best to hold composure, admirably. Uncharacteristically so, staring down to the floor, his fists clenched and his frame trembling a little. There was agony and remorse, disgust running over Rodimus’ faceplate; the conflict of caring. The conflict of loving. The conflict of daring to carve a small place in his spark for someone that couldn’t, shouldn’t deserve it. And yet, there he stood.

Clenched fists.

Strangled sobs.

Aching in his chest.

 

Optimus spoke.

_Let me see him._

His voice made Rodimus' helm tilt up with a jolt as if, somehow, he hadn’t realised his mentor had been there. Optimus passed through Magnus,

limping forward,

before the bigger mech’s other hand blocked him in motion with a push on his chassis. Optimus shouted.

_Let me see him!_

It roared, like an order on the battlefield. To empty walls, to an hollow law enforcer, to a devastated captain.

And Magnus gulped, for a fleeting moment returning to the world and the realisation of it all almost hit him, trying his best not to let the mask of formality fall, before exhaling one dreadful line.

 _Optimus,_ Magnus lips moved like a knife in an fresh wound, slowly, kindly,

_he is no more._

There was something funny, he thought, about knowing the trial went on without him, his power yet again just a passing flame of nothingness. His broken limping towards it had been for nothing, yet, yet again for nothing. His legs gave in, feeling the weight of his tiredness looming over his shoulderplates, as Magnus’ hand firmly stood him up, as Rodimus rushed in to help in fear, in terror of losing another one. The yellow painted palm held his other shoulder and their optics met.

He saw Rodimus’ endless guilt, in his matrix blue eyes. His inability to cope with the loss of someone so inexplicably, so wrongly dear, someone he shouldn’t, couldn’t care for. Optimus could see the reflection of his own light in those optics.

The same guilt.

*

“They allowed us to place his head on the body, to honour it.” Magnus stood next to the unnaturally greyed mass, laid on the silver table. Words of contrast and treachery, there was nothing to honour about _him_. “Many were opposed to.”

The sound of Magnus’ voice became a vague rumble in Optimus audials at his sight. At the sight of _it_.

Megatron laid still, the only colour left on his body was the bright red of his insignia propped on the chest, now dulled. Optimus analysed the firm pose with a distant stare, the immobile mech who had once fought fiercely against him for ages, was finally put down like justice demanded.

And it was right, and it was good.

It was right. It was good.

Everyone needed, deserved this, and he, he deserved worse.

But it all felt so incredibly wrong.

The helm, cut clean on the bottom part, sat right above the neck joints as if it was still mimicking unity, to be all one piece, in a macabre attempt to preserve life in a now empty husk. Megatron’s facial features were of a familiar expression of an inquisitive thought, as if he had just closed his optics to ponder over something, like he often used to.

Awful.

Magnus had fallen silent after a couple of minutes, facing Rodimus, somehow managing some comforting words that didn’t feel like betrayal and confusion.

“He looks asleep.”

Both their helms turned towards Optimus, stuck into a trance, staring at that silent corpse.

“Pardon?” Magnus asked, not sure if he had heard correctly.

“He looks,” Optimus paused, moving one of his hands to his uncovered mouth, as if his mind was trying to discern a puzzle, “asleep.”

*

Alone, alone in the room, uncaring of whom might be prying him through the security cameras, he stood next to Megatron. He wanted to narrate his deeds, what his tribulations had been in Megatron’s absence, how he felt so low in people’s conscience that he could barely suffer through it anymore, how he kept feeling wrong, wronged,

and worse and _worse_

and, oh, how awful, that he could only think of leaving, just leaving, disappearing into dust, again. Again. But this time, forever.

And all the mistakes he had been doing, all the people he had let down, the anger he harboured, always, always too much, always too persistent, and the mistrust, the deaths he witnessed, the deaths he brought, spilling out his emotions like a blind bot grasping for reassurance, kneeling to a dead corpse, shouting _please, please I’m so lost_ , and how, in the end of all things,

how everyone had felt saved,

but nobody was, really.

Nobody was, truly.

How _he_ would never feel truly saved.

How, how that had been the _right thing to do_. To kill him. It had been the _right thing_.

His fist clenched in a spasm, before moving over Megatron’s chassis, slightly touching the autobot symbol crowning over the lifeless shape.

 _I’ve been told_ , he said, _I’ve been told you went far away for a very long time_ , his mouth broke into a smile as he stared at the pensive face of his oldest, dearest enemy _. I’ve been told you spent there a life, a life where you did good_ , his voicebox hurt as a chuckle escaped him, _I’ve been told, I’ve been told and I haven’t talked to you in so long._

He felt his optics leak, like a defection, like an unwanted burst of emotion and shame as another chuckle left and filled the empty room, _a medic_ , Optimus’ voice wavered and the hand on the symbol clutched around it, _you became a medic._ There was pride in his voice, and Optimus hated it, he hated it.

His other hand had to support his damaged body up, leaning over the table, while his optics were expecting Megatron to reply, to say something, to retort with a smirk and a cunning response. But nothing came, the pensive expression was forever trapped there, motionless, old, consumed.

He hovered above the corpse, chuckles and sobs taking turns in a vain attempt to understand, to grasp it all.

Optimus was trapped there.

Motionless.

Old.

Consumed.


End file.
